Chapter 31
Later that night, Charlotte paced her new bedchambers, waiting for the footman to arrive so she might be escorted to the study. She was impatient to tell Lord Stanley all she had learned from Lady Boulton.
As the hour grew late, Sarah abandoned her for her bed, though Charlotte stubbornly remained awake. Her eyes had just begun to grow heavy when a soft knock sounded at the door.
She turned the handle at once. ‘At last—’
But the words died on her lips.
Instead of the footman, the tall figure of Lord Stanley stood in the doorway in decidedly less than formal attire. His dinner jacket was absent and his cravat loosened, revealing only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
She firmly willed herself to keep her attention upon his face rather than the alarming breadth of his shoulders. Deciding even that was dangerous territory, she instead busied herself adjusting the folds of her shawl.
He raised a brow at her reaction. ‘May I come in?’ he asked in a lowered voice. The corner of his mouth shifted slightly, as though he recognised precisely why she would not meet his eyes. When she hesitated, he added, ‘The gentlemen are still revelling downstairs. It seemed... safer to talk here.’
Her heart gave a traitorous flutter at the thought of Lord Stanley entering her bed chamber, though she stepped aside all the same, carefully avoiding his gaze as she gestured towards the armchairs near the fireplace.
‘Are you comfortable here?’ he asked, glancing around the room.
Was that hesitation in his voice?
‘Perfectly, thank you.’
He nodded once, a faint expression of satisfaction crossing his features—as though her comfort mattered to him. Charlotte found herself oddly consoled by the thought.
‘Well?’ he said at last, lowering himself into the decidedly feminine armchair with surprising ease. ‘What did you discover today?’
Charlotte gathered her skirts and seated herself on the sofa opposite, pulling her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. Though whether she sought protection from the evening chill or from his presence, she could not have said.
When she opened her mouth to speak, no sound emerged.
She berated herself for behaving like a complete ninny.
Clearing her throat, she silently scolded herself.
It was ludicrous to feel so disordered merely because he was sitting in her bedchamber.
These were extraordinary circumstances. They were discussing murder, conspiracies, and missing girls—she could not allow her natural feminine sensibilities to interfere with the matter at hand.
Resolutely mastering herself, she began recounting her conversations with Lady Susan and Lady Boulton.
Lord Stanley leaned forward slightly, listening intently. When she finished, an ominous silence settled between them.
‘So Payne owns several warehouses at the Liverpool docks, whilst Boulton’s plantations and trade routes connect abroad. And Hamilton inherited—or perhaps absorbed—Frederick Bainbridge’s shipping interests after his death,’ he summarised.
‘It appears the gentlemen’s business dealings are far more interconnected than we realised,’ she agreed quietly.
‘I confess I am surprised Lady Boulton knows as much as she does—and more surprised still that she told you,’ he remarked, looking impressed.
Charlotte allowed herself a faintly mischievous smile, smoothing invisible creases from her skirts.
‘Lady Boulton is considerably sharper than she appears. As for Lady Susan... perhaps she is merely disappointed. She likely believed Wolverton was forming an attachment, only for him to disappear. I do not believe she is much more involved than that.’
‘I agree. I fear Lady Susan has been used very ill by Wolverton,’ he replied grimly.
‘How did you get on with Mr Hamilton?’ she asked.
‘Both Boulton and Hamilton are proving exceedingly cautious, I am afraid.’
Concern tightened in her chest. Before she could think better of it, she laid a hand lightly upon his sleeve.
‘Please be careful. They are plotting something—I am certain of it. You are in far more danger than before...’
He looked down to where her hand rested upon his sleeve.
Charlotte withdrew it at once.
Feeling suddenly flustered, she rose and crossed to the bedside table under pretence of pouring herself some water. Yet once the tumbler was in her hand, she discovered her throat truly had gone dry and drank the entire glass far too quickly.
Behind her, she heard him exhale softly.
When she turned, she found him raking a hand through his dark curls, watching her.
‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘I fear you may be right. I feel I am very much in danger of—’
He broke off abruptly.
But he did not look away.
Something flickered in his eyes then—something she had not noticed before—and for one disorienting moment she felt quite caught by it.
Why did he keep looking at her in that manner? Surely he could not be forming an attachment. The notion was ridiculous. Men like Lord Stanley admired elegant beauties like Miss Pearson—not clumsy spinsters who stumbled into conspiracies.
She firmly reminded herself that this engagement was merely a temporary arrangement born out of necessity—nothing more.
Forcing herself to recover first, she sat down once more. ‘Who do you think the Falcon is?’ she asked, returning quickly to safer ground. Her tone emerged altogether more formal than before.
Lord Stanley tilted his head, studying her closely—whether at her question or her sudden change in tone, she was uncertain. Then his expression shuttered, and when he spoke again, his voice was noticeably more clipped.
‘According to my investigations, Fraser was nearly ruined by failed shipping investments only a few years ago.’ He leaned back slightly, his expression darkening. ‘Yet somehow he has since come into a sudden fortune. Until now, I could not determine how.’
He glanced towards the fire, jaw tightening.
‘But if Lady Boulton is correct, and Fraser became involved with Hamilton, then it finally makes sense.’
Charlotte tilted her head slightly. ‘You believe Hamilton financed him?’
‘Possibly. Or rewarded him.’ Lord Stanley’s tone sharpened. ‘But I still do not believe Fraser is the Falcon. If he only joined them recently, he is most likely little more than a new recruit.’
He paused briefly before continuing.
‘The Odd Fellows have operated for years, and this Falcon clearly commands the others. Judging by the manner in which they obeyed him the other evening, he must predate Fraser by a considerable margin.’
Charlotte’s lips pressed together.
‘And though I dislike saying so, I do not believe Lord Bainbridge capable of orchestrating such an operation either. Lady Boulton claimed only his son attended these gatherings previously.’
‘I do not believe Lord Bainbridge is involved either,’ he agreed. ‘I have been observing him closely these past days. The man is becoming senile—even in the midst of simple conversations. I do not think his mind remains sharp enough to oversee an operation of such intricacy.’
Charlotte nodded slowly.
‘Besides,’ Lord Stanley added dryly, ‘a criminal mastermind generally remembers where he last placed his spectacles.’
A reluctant smile tugged at Charlotte’s lips.
‘Unless he passed the operation on to his son?’ she suggested.
He shook his head. ‘I think that unlikely. My sources tell me Lord Bainbridge was estranged from his son for decades before the young man’s death—long before the Odd Fellows began expanding their operations.
Bainbridge resided chiefly in London whilst Frederick remained almost entirely at the country estate.
They scarcely saw one another and rarely corresponded. ’
‘Why?’
‘Rumour has it the son despised his father and wanted nothing to do with him. Bainbridge, in turn, cut him off financially.’
Charlotte frowned thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps Frederick Bainbridge’s lack of funds drove him towards the Odd Fellows in the first place—and helped him build his own fortune?’
Lord Stanley nodded approvingly. ‘I believe that is more likely now Lady Boulton has confirmed Frederick alone attended these gatherings.’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘And according to my enquiries, his fortune increased dramatically during the last decade.’
‘Which leaves Payne or Oswald.’ Charlotte said after a pause. ‘But I do not think Sir Oswald is involved. He attends only on account of Boulton’s sister. He seems so insensible—a bumbling, horse-mad sort of man. I find it highly improbable that he could orchestrate such things.’
He did not answer at once. Instead, he shifted slightly, his fingers tapping once against the armrest as though turning some troublesome thought over in his mind.
‘I do not think Sir Oswald is entirely as foolish as he appears,’ he said slowly. ‘I have been thinking about the passageways. Sir Oswald was commissioned to oversee the repairs after the fires. It is entirely possible the hidden corridors were installed under instructions from the Grand Fellows.’
Charlotte glanced at him askance. ‘But they could have been installed whilst your father was still alive?’
‘I cannot say for certain,’ he admitted. ‘But the passages exist only within the west wing, which was the sole part of the house damaged by the fire.’
He glanced towards the ceiling as though picturing the hidden corridors threading through the house above them.
‘Men do not construct concealed routes throughout a mansion without attracting attention,’ he continued. ‘I am certain local labourers and foremen would have been involved in the work.’
A crease appeared between his brows.
‘I have already instructed the Bow Street Runners to locate those involved in the repairs,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one of them may be persuaded to talk.’
Charlotte found herself unexpectedly impressed and looked at him anew. Beneath the aristocratic reserve lay a mind far sharper than she had first imagined.